


Body Broken, Spirit Numb

by The_Conspiracy_Theorist



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort, Superfamily, Superhusbands, Time Travel, and bad guys, angst and not angst, but sort of, many things, there are always bad guys, who even knows how to tag these things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Conspiracy_Theorist/pseuds/The_Conspiracy_Theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An explosion cuts Spiderman off from the rest of the Avengers, leaving two devastated parents searching for a son they can only seem to believe vanished under thousands of tonnes of dessicated Manhattan rock. With nothing but blood and a torn mask, there isn't much that Captain America and Iron Man can do to believe their only boy made it out of the surprise attack alive. </p><p>Peter, however, didn't seem to think dying was an option for that day. Instead, when he wakes he's surrounded by unknown scenery, unknown soliders and a very familiar face that has no idea who he is. As the strange events and plans unfold, Peter finds himself embroiled in a plot far more dangerous than just ending up on the front lines of World War Two at the height of a direct offensive. How does a sixteen year old survive in a game of HYDRA hide and seek, and how the hell is he going to get back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first of...well everything, so who knows how it's going to go! I just write for fun, any comments are welcome. Enjoy!

An explosion ripped through downtown Manhattan, it was always Manhattan. Did the bad guys have no imagination these days? Couldn’t they try Tokyo for once, London even, maybe even Paris. Paris was nice this time of year. But, it was an explosion in downtown Manhattan as usual, adding to the cacophony of noise that already rent the street and joined the smoke billowing from another eruption only moments before.

 _“Spiderman offline.”_ A mechanical female voice uttered, the tone monotonous, but enough to turn the heads of five of the most skilled heroes known to publicity.

“Spiderman? Come in Spiderman!” The collected, urgent voice of Captain America joined the fray, a thunk cutting off the end of his sentence as his shield connected with something hostile and solid. No reply was given.

“JARVIS, track Spiderman’s position.” The equally urgent, but less collected, tones of Iron Man commanded the ever faithful AI as a flash of red streaked over the nearest building, repulsors firing off a series of well-aimed explosions into the fighting core of swarming creatures.

 _“GPS for Spiderman has been disabled, I cannot pick up his signal.”_ Was it just Steve or did the Artificial Intelligence sound worried? Couldn’t be.

“Hawkeye, do you have eyes on Pet-Spiderman?” Captain America’s voice was strained now as he bore down on another set of buzzing wasp-like projectiles. They had swarmed down less than an hour ago, filling the streets and causing havoc wherever seemingly random explosions forced terrified citizens into the now crowded streets. The police had been onsite within minutes, herding the civilians down the street as the Avengers dropped down onto the nearby rooftops. Spiderman hadn’t even meant to be among them. He was meant to be at home, living his life, complaining about his homework, day dreaming about blonde girls in his maths class. He wasn’t meant to be slinging from rooftop to rooftop chasing after unknown flying technology. But, as usual, headstrong as Tony and just as stubborn as Steve, Peter has swooped in at the first sign of trouble, smashing two of the buzz-bots together with a collision that had taken out three more. He was good, he was scarily good, and he had both his father’s watching his back. It was the only reason he’d been allowed to stay, not to mention having to activate the tracer and the comm link Tony had attached to his suit along with the extra armour. Steve didn’t have to be happy about it for it to be happening. And he didn’t have to be a friend of the archer to pick up the terse anxiety linking into his usual snark-filled voice.

“He was inside the bank with Widow. I can’t…I lost track of them in the smoke.”

The smoke. How close was his son to the explosion, was he hit, was he just buried, was the transponder damaged. That might be it. That must be the only thing. The transponder was damaged.

_I couldn’t call for my ride._

He just couldn’t pick up his phone, he’d be fine. He’d be-

“Down, Captain!” The boom of the Prince of Asgard resounding down the street and Steve acted on impulse, dropping to one knee, shield held over his head as the gust of wind announcing Mjolnir’s rapid arrival pulsed over. When the hammer made a second pass in the other direction he raised his head. Somewhere along the line his cowl had come down, revealing the dirt streaked blonde hair and grime covered cheeks, and the mask of worry.

“Go to your young one, Captain, I shall restrain this rabble.” The blonde God set his chin high, hammer clasped firmly as Steve nodded, breaking into a run through the abandoned cars, ears deaf to the war cry that came from behind him.

The battle was folding, the bots dropping with each hit of an arrow, a hammer, a fist, a bullet, leaving fewer and fewer to carry on the assault. Steve pushed his way through the remaining civilians stumbling away from the smoky haze, shoved along by haggard looking police officers. The street was a mess, debris strewn every which way, groaning victims and shattered buzz-bots. And the bank, once an old fashioned, gothic style building, was a crumbled mess of stone and mortar, lying halfway across the road in streams of rock and rubble.

“Oh God…” Tony, his faceplate up, eyes wide and suit streaked with soot, came to a halt beside his husband, staring out at the once grand standing bank. “He might’ve…he might not’ve been in here.” He offered with a sense of dread, even he didn’t truly believe it. And not even a moment later a policeman, holding his hand to a gash that ran up the length of his arm stumbled up, hat ripped and shirt blood stained.

“He tried to get everyone out, Spiderman, he saw the bomb, tried to get everyone out. He did too. But, he was…he was in there.” Without his hands the officer jerked his head towards the pile of…the tomb of rock and stone.

“JARVIS scan for…scan the…” The iron suited billionaire, the dread now raising to the point of audible heartbeat pounding in his ears, waved his hand out at the…pile of rubble? Of desolation? Of destruction? No, a daylight crypt. Faithful JARVIS, wonderful, faithful JARVIS knew what he meant.

_“I can detect a signal coming from the northern most corner of the bank’s schematics, sir.”_

Wonderful, wonderful JARVIS. The faceplate clunked back down as the HUD splashed out an exact location for the tiny blinking blue light on Tony’s radar. Steve didn’t need to be told twice to break into a scrambling run over the heaps of destruction towards the little blip of hope.

Without the flight capabilities of the Iron Man suit, Steve found himself hauling hunks of rock aside in order to follow his husband. The sounds of battle had died down, leaving him with nothing but his shuddering heart beat and his thoughts. Peter should’ve never been here, his little boy. He should’ve never been in the damn suit, armour or not. But, he and Tony had known from the moment he’d pulled off the mask with a defiant, if anxious, expression that they’d never be able to stop him. All they could do was keep him covered, keep him trained, keep him that little bit safer than skin tight spandex and his spider-sense could do for him. He might be sixteen, a young man in his own right with more intelligence than his entire year combined (proud parents were allowed to exaggerate) and unlimited potential, but he was still their kid. Their son. Their baby. He shouldn’t have been here.

A groan drew his attention away from his thoughts, pulling him back to the present of scrabbling over loose rocks. Rubble moved off to his left, a particularly heavy slab creaking slightly as something below gave a push against the uneven surface. Hopping light footed over the nearest chasm of darkened rock, the Captain put his own strength into heaving the slab out of the way, revealing a coughing, dust dislodging Black Widow unfolding from her position under the crumbling mortar. Despite his worry, his undeniable need to get to that northern corner, Steve leaned down to offer the assassin a hand up. She grasped it briefly, pulling her grime smeared form up before she met his eyes. He didn’t like the look that broke the usual dark neutrality of her stare. “Peter was behind me.”

Her voice was low, the emotion bringing out the slight hint of a natural Russian lilt. “Closer to the explosion.” Steve nodded, lips tight, jaw tighter.

“We know, Tony picked up his signal though.” His signal, meant he was alive right? No matter he was offline, he was still here, JARVIS had found him, right? He could convince himself of that at least. _Right?_

A terse nod was given as the assassin moved back towards the dissipating fray Hawkeye and Thor had managed to turn from a swarm into a few stray whizzing projectiles. Steve carried on his struggle through the equally dissipating grey smog. This was taking too long. Where was Tony, where was the bright red beacon through the smoke. Ah-ha.

Blue eyes swung around to the red and gold figure standing yards away and with a sigh he broke into a jog over the uneven ground. There was less wreckage it seemed here, fewer colossal boulders standing in the way. Instead it was desiccation. The explosion had ploughed outwards, destroying everything in its back and blowing the front of the bank onto the street. This was the centre of the blast zone, a circle of destruction leaving almost unrecognisable dust.

 _“…less than ten per cent likelihood of survival… I cannot detect any life-signs, sir.”_ Was the line Steve caught as he came to a stop beside the static Iron Man. Tony was silent, head lowered. Panic, doubt, terror, denial, trepidation all coiled in Steve’s belly.

“Tony?” He asked, voice uncommonly small.

“He was here, Steve.” This time, the voice was choked, mumbled and as Steve followed his lover’s eyeline he could see why. Within Iron Man’s gauntleted hands, soot streaked, ripped and dust covered to make it almost unrecognisable, was Spiderman’s striped mask. A rip ran straight from the dusty crown, through the forehead and dissected the mask almost completely in two, right between the two blood stained white, blank staring eyes. Even as the horror settled in as a measure of ice cold that even the seventy years under the Arctic to lay a finger on, a droplet of grey stained blood dripped down from the staring eyes and splashed onto the rubble strewn floor to join its fellows in a macabre modern art painting beside the feet of two devastated parents.

* * *

_Mumbled voices._

Darkness swamed. Explosions. Always explosions.

_Thudding footsteps._

Dancing behind his eyelids, piercing the throbbing in his head to make it even worse, sending little fireworks of white light sparking across his brain.

A groan whispered from between his lips, the dry scratching of his throat muting the noise. His eyelids felt like lead, gritty lead. The type of lead that was covered in crap and dust and gravel. But, even with whatever hell was caked over his face irritating his eyes, he managed to pry them to at least half mast, blinking lethargically to shove off the adjustment to the light.

“Mmmph?” He questioned, more to himself than anything else as he tried to take in the blurry insides of…a tent? Tarpaulin walls and dark green camouflage flanked him on either side of the dark room. One hand slid off the…was this a mattress?...feeling across the floor as he bent his arm up towards his face. Bare face. Bare face…with a course, scratchy bandage over his forehead.

“You’re awake.” A familiar timbre broke through his exploration of his own head as the room rocked slightly. Turning his gaze towards where a flap in the tent had opened, a figure stepped up onto the…car? Truck? He was in a truck? A tarpaulin, army green truck?

“We were wondering if you were going to sleep through the whole journey.”

“And miss all the Austrian scenery.” Another voice joined in, light from the open tent flap spilling in again as another figure joined the masses.

“How’re you feeling, kid?” Peter blinked at the second figure, the disorientation more pronounced than ever, even as his senses returned to him in dribs and drabs.

“Uhm…I…wha’s goin’ on.” He scratched out eloquently, his throat betraying him as he locked eyes on the tall (although he quickly grabbed a little tin mug and tipped the remaining contents of a water canister in to take a seat beside the little mattress pallet) figure of the leather jacketed Captain America. His Pops.

“What do you remember, son? About HYDRA’s base?”

As he stared he could see differences, differences in his Pops, the man he’d known for so many years of his life. The costume, it was old, ripped in places, hidden by the pulled up collar of the faded brown leather jacket. But, it wasn’t the clothing that really made him uncomfortable. It was the eyes. As warm as they always were, as honest and as pale blue. But, now…now they held absolutely no recognition. Nothing. Casual, companionable concern for his well-being. Nothing more.

“HYDRA…” He breathed out, taking the proffered cup and the help in sitting up against the sagging wall of the truck. “I don’t…” He swallowed, taking a moment to sip the water, eyes falling to the wooden slats on the floor.

“You took quite a knock to the head, it’s okay if you can’t remember.” Po-Captain Rogers, supplied helpfully, a small, comforting smile curving the side of his lips. “What’s your name, soldier? You weren’t in your uniform when we found you, just some sort of…experimental uniform.” A snicker could be heard from behind Captain Rogers.

“HYDRA pyjamas…”

Peter blinked. HYDRA…Captain Rogers…Tarpaulin army trucks…Austrian scenery. He raised his head slightly, looking into the deep blue eyes he’d come to trust since the moment he’d looked up into their depths as they comforted his tears away, Peter knew he had to lie. And God how he hated lying to his Pops. But, maybe this wasn’t his Pops, maybe this wasn’t his Papa anymore. His mind whirred, flicking over named, aliases…anything. Anything he’d remember.

“It’s…Ben…Ben Richards.”


	2. Touch of Surrender

* * *

**THE PAST CALLS**

* * *

 

“Richards.” The Captain nodded with a faint, familiar smile. “Do you remember why you were taken away from the others? You were found with these…”

A second figure had clambered up from the entrance of the truck, flap fluttering shut as the engine below growled angrily into life. Peter lurched slightly, the dull ache in his ribs making itself known as he gripped the palette of his thin mattress with whitening knuckles.

“Easy… We’re just moving out, hoping to be back at camp by dawn.” When Peter turned his head back towards his Pop the man was settled back on one of the larger crates that were stacked on the other palettes.  In his hand was a battered, red web shooter.

“They…” He wracked his brain, pulling in all the old stories Steve had told him over the years, likely incredibly watered down descriptions of war suitable for bedtime or campfire stories, but they were all he had right now. “They were testing out some sort of…abseiling device.” He chose his words carefully. “And armour…They kept muttering about genetics. Enhancements. Soldiers. Mad scientist stuff.” He have a weak little laugh, eyes flicking up to the calm, slightly narrowed blue above him before he reached out towards the small device. There was a hesitancy in the Captain’s gaze, but with a slow hand he passed it over, watching each move with careful delicacy. With the shooter back in his hand, Peter slipped it against his wrist, the slightly dented side digging in when he tightened it. Glancing at the two occupants of the moving truck – the other a man he’d only seen in the occasional sketch Steve had absently left around the Tower, one of his soldiers, his friends, Bucky was it? – he flipped his wrist over, aiming against the tarpaulin and pressing down to release a line that thunked and squelched into the inner line of army green. His spare hand sprung up at the same moment, spider sense prickling as a kick into action. His fingers curled around the grip of a gun that had somehow materialised in Bucky’s hand, and with a quick shove of his elbow, pushed the weapon towards the ceiling. The soldier fired on instinct.

“Stand down!” The shout echoed around the enclosed space, seemingly louder than the gunshot that still rang in his ears. With quick, scrabbling movements Peter dropped both hands down, the web shooter thumping onto the mattress and the soldier sent sprawling back into the flapping green of the truck wall. There was a scuffle of movement, the truck coming to an abrupt halt that had even Steve, who had stood up to his full – or as full as he could get in the enclosed space – height during the commotion taking a step back to stop from careening forward.

“Captain?” An English voice called from outside a moment before the flap was yanked aside.

“It’s nothing, Hodge.” The Captain, Steve, Pop…hell Peter didn’t know how to refer to him, gave a slow nod, eyes still trained on the teenager. “Bucky, give us a moment, alright, and move the caravan out.”

“Steve. You see what he did. Taller or not I ain’t leavin’.”

“Bucky, please.” Finally the blue stare that had kept Peter rooted to the stop slid away to the soldier who’d picked himself up from the crate he’d been shoved into, looking more than a little pissed at his dismissal.

“He does somethin’ like that again and I’m kicking his ass.” The disgruntled soldier finally jumped down from the truck, shoulders shrugging up against the stiff breeze outside and vanishing as the flap slapped shut.

There was a few moments of highly uncomfortable silence as Steve stared down at the boy he’d adopt in…just over seventy years. Eventually the truck trundled back to life, the sounds of thumping footsteps and muffled voices picking up as a soft background symphony again.

“Richards, wasn’t it?” Steve had removed his helmet, smoothing the collar of his jacket back down as he settled himself back onto the crate opposite Peter. “Quite some reflexes you have there.” Peter just shrugged mutely, shoulders still tense, eyes skittering around as his fingers nervously picked at the edge of the mattress. He always had to be moving, always had to be fiddling. If a psychiatrists had gotten his hands on him at an early age who knew how many little “conditions” he would’ve ended up with on his permanent file.

“Ben, when we found you, you were…very badly injured. Head wound, broken ribs, some of the worst wounds I’d ever seen. Not to mention some of the worst the doctor had seen. None of us thought you were going to survive the journey back, especially with nothing more than some make shift bandages and whatever we managed to find in the base.” The Captain’s posture was relaxed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes firm and boring into the teenager’s, even if the teen couldn’t bring himself to look up for more than a few seconds at a time.

“I feel…fine.” He murmured after a moment of silence indicating Steve expected him to reply. He was used to the silences; they were his Pop’s way of having a ‘rational’ conversation when it came to being told off. Interactive punishment as it were.

“Exactly.” Steve sat up slightly. “You’re almost completely healed, not even a scar. You’re completely healthy and it’s been less than two days.”

Peter forced out a chuckle. “That’s…that’s ridiculous, sir. I should be a dead man, right? Or dying? Doctor must’ve been drinking, or head injury. Doctors are always the worst about saying when they’re injured, or they’re hypochondriacs.”

Steve’s blonde eyebrow raised. “I would’ve maybe agreed with you a few months ago, but things being as they are, you should be dead, and yet here we are.” He lowered his head slightly. “There’s something you’re not telling me, son.”

Peter’s eyes were wide, deep brown pits of anxiety. He’d never been good at lying, he’d never been good at improvising. He was generally told to sit out of drama class because of how awkward he looked anywhere near a stage. Sure, he could showboat with the best of them with a mask over his face, allowing the sarcasm to come out as a new language without so much as a second thought, but now? Nope, nu uh, brain was on vacation right now, call back Thursday. He hated Thursdays.

The panic was evident to the Captain, who’d seen enough scared faces in the last seventy two hours to recognise one when he saw it. It had been a long few days; dragging the wounded up onto the commandeered trucks, circling up the left overs of POWs, convincing the older soldiers he was their rescue mission and not just some flouncy fellow in bright red propaganda boots. He hated those boots.

But, this kid? No-one had seemed to recognise him when Bucky had dragged the small, red figure out from beneath a heap of rubble, heart only just beating against his throat. It wasn’t exactly unusual, the POWs didn’t know half of the other regiments locked up with them, half of them weren’t even from English speaking countries, but they were good, brave men. This boy was no different. Except for the uniform. Bucky had been sceptical, questioning whether they were just bringing a HYDRA agent into their midst, but Steve didn’t have the heart to leave him there, enemy or not. Not dying like that. HYDRA must be even more monstrous than they first believed if they were using _children_ as their recruits. But, then he’d come round, groggy and scared and _American._

What kind of monsters were they if they were using children as recruits? As…experiments. Maybe he hadn’t been the first? Or maybe this kid had been caught up in some terrible HYDRA trial. Was his face going to peel off into the dark red of a grotesque skull? Bucky had already tried to test whether he was wearing some sort of mask three times already. He was ready to wake up without his best friend attempting to rip his face off right now. Looking up at the wide, staring, _scared_ eyes across from him, Steve sighed.

“How ‘bout I go get you something to eat? Whatever…body chemistry you have might’ve healed you up, but you have just come out of a coma. You’ve got to be hungry, right?” There was a slow, hesitant nod from the kid. “Okay, then. Just…rest up. We’re going to talk about this, but when you’re stronger, okay? We’re not your enemies here, whatever happened we’re your allies, we’ve got your back, Ben.”

With the final nod, the Captain stood, taking a breath as he slid nimbly down from the moving truck, vanishing into the crowds of walking foot soldiers.

 

* * *

**THE PRESENT ANSWERS**

* * *

 

The rubble had been hauled away, air lifted out or trucked out; any way to just rid the street of wreckage that spread far and wide. The bank was desiccated, void of all recognition. By now most of the police officers had vanished, the salvage crews peeling away for the night leaving nothing but a small group of silent figures. A blood smear had been identified as the bank manager, who Peter had run back for as he futilely attempted to save…something. They weren’t even sure what the idiot had been trying to salvage but, but he was the reason. The reason Spiderman had swung back through the once ornate glass and stone doors, sprinted across the marble floors and…

Thor, billowing cape and haphazard mane of hair stepped forward, a heavy hand landing on the Captain’s shoulder. Somewhere behind the shield had been dropped, discarded. What use was it if it couldn’t protect the one thing it was meant to protect the most? Blue eyes that once held nothing but hope, justice and a positive outlook on a life that could come were almost a blank hole of loss. But, the Prince could see how hard the man was attempting to collect himself, to put up his own metaphorical shields so as not to collapse right here in this Hel forsaken street. It was like the good Captain didn’t register his presence, his gaze blank as he stared down at the last remaining piece of the brave young Midgardian they’d all come to know as an ally, a friend, a brother, a son.

“We should return to the Tower.” His voice was unnaturally quiet, but still managed to carry through the quiet street. With the sirens silenced, the voices and the traffic ceased, only the sound of the wind was enough to cut the eerie hush. No Iron Soldier and his amusing prattling. No Archer with his misplaced sense of humour. No Captain with his exasperated sigh. No Spider-child with his infectious grin and unusual nicknames.

Slowly, his voice seemed to rouse the blue clad Captain to what remained of his shocked senses, turning an almost devastated look towards the tall mountain of Norse royalty. With a disjointed nod, he took an unsteady step towards the dust clouded figure of the Iron Man, sliding out from underneath Thor’s hand.

With respect, the Prince stepped away, rejoining the Archer and the Assassin.

“We can keep looking. He’s hardy, he’s somewhere we haven’t looked.” The Archer’s voice was desperate, even to his own ears, Thor knew, though he took a deep breath, a sigh.

“We may rekindle the search when daylight comes. Tonight will bring no bounty.” He intoned softly. “But, to search through this rubble would be futile. There is no trail to follow him from here.”

“That we’ve found.” Came the stubborn reply. “You don’t know…”

Thor knew the Archer had taken a distinct liking to the boy, treating him as a younger brother. The loss of a brother was something he knew all too well. To lose a child, he would imagine, would be a chasm even greater than the darkness of losing a sibling. Even so, he could understand the Archer’s – Clint’s – wish to continue their search.

“Tomorrow, Clint. For now you must be a support for those who may lose faith.” He turned head over a slightly slumped shoulder to the two figures in the haze behind them. “We are their family, for that reason we shall be there when they need us and when they say they do not.”

The Assassin, who had been quiet as usual up until the moment she saw fit to intervene, nodded her grim agreement, turning towards the seated figure of the rage inflicted doctor. Thor had seen him arrive, but in the midst of taking the rubble apart, gentle, piece by piece in the hope of finding a battered but living Peter, he had not registered a great deal of his action.

He carried one of the Iron Man’s tablet creations, fingers moving across the surface as though it were some delicate instrument for magical purposes. In his mind, it likely was.

“Doctor?” He asked, offering a hand to the hunched figure.

“The energy signature’s off.” Was all the muttered reply he was given.

“What?” The Archer was perched up on the same fallen rock in a moment, they personal space they usually awarded the doctor forgotten.

“The energy signature for the explosion. There’s one…the same as the bots, but there’s another. A peak. Here.” An image was pulled up on the screen, some sort of timed graph showing spikes and dips in red lines. Two particular spikes stood out against the other smaller mountains of crimson.

“These two,” Doctor Banner stated “are the bomb that took out the bank. There was an initial explosion followed by a second, smaller detonation.” He tapped his fingers against the surface, bringing up a line of white with a single peak directly between the two red mounds. “This is the second signature, but it doesn’t match anything else from the surrounding area.”

“Well, what could it be, Doctor?” Thor asked, Mjolnir swinging slightly in his hand as he frowned down at the diminutive man that could so easily become a highly formidable foe. There was silence as fingers flew across the Stark device once more.

* * *

Steve picked his way across the dust strewn ground with uncertain, unsteady steps. It was like his body was working on autopilot, attempting to drag him into the orbit of a man who had been his constant for so long. He came to a stumbling stop beside the red clad figure, despair radiating from every facet of the red titanium (gold-titanium alloy as he was often reminded) and he could see the sparkling of tears sliding down the dusty cheeks. The suit was scratched and dirty, especially the gauntlets. The gauntlets were almost shredded, each hand having been dug again and again and again into the wreckage, yanking up armfuls to search beneath. But, every movement had been futile. Nothing beyond the first scrap of costume that was now gripped so tightly in Steve’s hand one would be worried it would rip.

But, it had already ripped. It had already ripped the hearts from two men cowering under the weight of grief in the shards of evening light.

“Tony…” His voice sounded hollow in the pre night splinters of sunset turning the landscape pink. His husband didn’t turn, but he could hear the sharp inhale.

“His curfew’s in ten minutes. I’m gonna ground him this time if he’s late.” Tony’s hand shook as Steve pulled off the shattered gauntlet. The knuckles below were scraped and torn, but intact as he wrapped his fingers around them.

“He’ll be home, Steve. Doing his homework that’s below him because he should be in college, but he wanted to stay behind. He wanted to be…to be a normal kid like his aunt and uncle taught him to be. He’ll be watching this on TV and laughing at his…at us.”

“Tony…”

“He’ll be home, Steve. He promised never to miss curfew again.” There was almost a plaintive cry in Tony’s voice as Steve wrapped his arms around the bulky armour, feeling the tremble beneath his fingers, the lump in his throat, the hole in his chest.

“I’ll ground him this time.”

“I know…” Was whispered against the cold temple of the scraped mask. “We both will.”

* * *

**THE PAST LIES**

* * *

  

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, tugging his dented shield with him and hefting it onto his shoulder. It still had the fist imprint courtesy of one royally upset Nazi, but at least it had done most of his job. Stretching his stride out a little longer he soon caught up with the small group leading the hike through the rather scenic Austrian countryside. Bucky caught his eye the moment he fell into step beside his old friend, a little spark in the back of his mind smiling at the fact he had to slow his pace instead of half jog to keep up now.

“He tear his face off too? What colour was it this time, blue? Green? He looked like a green kid to me.” The sarcasm was light, friendly.

“He’s just a scared boy, but there’s definitely a lot he’s not telling us.”

“Did you expect him to at the first meeting?” Jones raised up his voice, hefting the impressive gun he’d managed to acquire onto his shoulder.

“No.” The Captain conceded. “But, I also didn’t expect someone to try and shoot him,” He shot his eyes to Bucky who shrugged with a completely unapologetic huff.

“Seems like he was prepared for someone to do it.”

“He’s just scared.” Steve repeated with a sigh. “But, he’s got some…skills. Something Phillips and Agent Carter are definitely going to want to get out of him. Best he tells someone he can trust before Phillips decides how to get it across.”

“And how’re you gonna do that, Cap?” Jones sounded less than convinced of his new superior’s skill. Steve smiled. This boy, this child. He wasn’t a soldier. He might’ve been promoted to Captain in less than usual circumstances, but he’d like to think he could read people and this boy wasn’t anything like the recruits stumbling around him. He had the air of…something. Something Steve couldn’t pinpoint, but he was also just a child.

“Home comforts, Jones. Home comforts.”

 

Back on the truck, hundreds of miles from home, decades away from his own life, Peter tugged the now useless bandage from his hair and dropped his head into his waiting hands, sighing against the fear, the confusion and the trepidation that had taken root in his chest and he doubted would be leaving for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one's a little longer than the last. Still a complete beginner to this so any comments are helpful and I hope you like it!


	3. Call To Arms

* * *

**BELIEVE THE PAST**

* * *

Home comforts, as it turned out, was a kindly voice and whatever rations could be found in the ex-HYDRA caravans. Steve had left the boy for a good hour before the trail of trucks decided to stop for the night, the sunlight fading into brilliant shards of pink and orange that splintered through the trees. They’d isolated him – well, he had a name now… _Ben. –_ in his own little truck, filled with crates of armour that they doubted the kid could do anything dangerous with. With his men setting up camp around him, the low murmur of voices a quiet hum in the background, the Captain climbed back up onto the transport to be met by two large, wary brown eyes. Ben, with his slightly owlish stare, had the strange device they’d found on both wrists in one hand, evidently in the middle of playing with it. A few of the soldiers had attempted to take a closer look at it, but none of them had even gotten the clasps undone. Some sort of strange new fangled device. He didn’t understand half the weaponry the army already used, this was just another piece of technology he was sure the world would be accustomed to in thirty years.

If the world existed in thirty years. Why anyone would want to destroy the world was beyond him. It was just a touch of evil inside deranged men.

“It’s not exactly home cooking, but it’s better than bread and water.” He began with a small, friendly smile as he placed the plate of warm stew in front of the boy, a canteen of water plonking down beside it. The wary eyes, if anything, tipped over the scale to even more wary. “It’s just stew, all the soldiers are eating it, Ben.” With a slightly longer than necessary sigh, Steve lowered himself onto the opposite crate he’d occupied earlier, his own little tin bowl steaming. Dunking the spoon into the mix he took a bite, shooting a reassuring smile to the huddled kid in a corner. He’d removed the bandage, leaving nothing but slight redness around where had been a colossal seeming crack in the delicate skull. “How’re the ribs?” He asked casually after swallowing. It was just rude to speak with one’s mouth full.

Ben eyed him for another moment before reaching out hesitantly for his own bowl, taking it with careful movements to taste the slightly watery, but no less hunger quenching nutrition. Before he could even think about replying to the politely posed question, Steve smiled as half the bowl vanished in hungry gulps. “Slow down, solider, it’s not going to run away.” He chuckled lightly, placing his own stew on his knee. Maybe the kid would like seconds more than he really felt like food right now. Embarrassed brown eyes raised as he swallowed another bite, licking his lips.

“Sorry, sir…Uh, yeah the ribs.” He paused, chewing the inside of his lip. “They’re fine, thanks. Healing I guess.”

“Healed, I imagine.” Steve corrected with another one of those small, comforting smiles. No wonder he’d sold more bonds than anything else in the great propaganda movement of World War Two. No wonder his films had boosted more moral than a full week of sterling, political speeches. Apparently what the world wanted to see was a man punch Hitler in the face while holding two girls above his head on a motorcycle. Peter had had fun with YouTube one rainy afternoon…

“Maybe.” Steve watched the boy dig in again, slower this time, but with no less underlying hunger.

“So, you going to tell me what happened?” He ventured after a few moments of silent eating. The kid could certainly put it away. Another mouthful was taken, likely as a stalling technique before he found mahogany brown eyes raised to meet his.

“My dad…he used to talk about you all the time. Everyone did. But, all the time. Like he knew you. I always felt like I knew you from that. Dumb, yeah I know. Just one of those things.” The kid trailed off, running a hand through the shaggy bounds of light brown hair. The bowl was empty now, discarded beside him as he pulled his knees up to the bare chest, once covered with reams of white bandages.

“You can tell him you do know me now.” Steve ventured, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. The boy chuckled.

“Yeah…Captain America in person. He’ll be thrilled.” There was a trace of humour, almost a bitter line that Steve couldn’t quite place, but there were many things about this boy that didn’t exactly add up.

“So, was it your dad that gave you these…enhancements?” While he could do the slowly, gently phase, he did need answers. They’d be starting off again when dawn broke and he didn’t feel he could hand over this kid with just a name and a list of impossibilities. Ben seemed to sigh.

“Sort of…Look, Captain, this whole thing isn’t gonna be easily explained. I’m not…I’m not meant to _be_ here.”

“None of us are, son. But, when war comes we’ve all got to play our part.”

“No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m meant to be…not here. Not in this war, not in this…I’m meant to be home.” His voice trailed off, chin dropping with an audible thunk onto his boney knee caps.

“Ben, how old are you?” He couldn’t be more than seventeen, even with a light, lithe physique he’d trained for, but what if this boy was an experiment? Had his father done this to him? Trying to replicate what Doctor Erskine had done all those months ago and had come up with…Ben?

“No, that’s not…not it either.” The boy sighed, seemingly deflating into a failed heap as his fingers moved to pick at the edge of the worn, green, military issue mattress. “Can I…Can I go outside at least. It’s claustrophobic in here, and warm. Really warm. I just want to stretch my legs a bit. I’m not running. You can put me on a leash. I just…wanna get out of here…” He was endearing in an odd, rambling sort of way. Maybe it was the panic, maybe it was fear, maybe that was just how the boy spoke.

* * *

** FOR THE PRESENT HAS NO ANSWERS **

* * *

 

Phil Coulson was a man known for his unruffleable calm. He was a man who could stand to face the jaws of Death itself and offer Death a breath mint. He was a man who raised an eyebrow at misbehaving demi-gods and chuckled at the very idea of deathly bodily harm.

In layman’s terms, Phil Coulson was a badass.

But, that still didn’t stop him looking down at the scene of miserable fatigue below him with a heavy heart. The Avengers, as thoroughly frustrating and nightmarish for paperwork as they were…well, they were good people. Good men and women who laid down their lives for the worldwide equivalent of King and Country. Who had laid down a life for humanity that day.

Tightening his tie to appear the pinnacle of glorified business professional, Coulson turned at the heavy booted footsteps that clumped into the office.

“Gotta report for me? Or another sob story?”

A pinch faced Nick Fury dumped a file on his already overburdened desk, fixing Coulson with his patented one eye pirate glare.

“Our technicians traced the energy readings. They appear to match. Only this was much, much bigger.”

“And Parker was at the heart of this…”

“Seems so.”

Fury’s hand rested against the wood of his desk, face set in a perpetual grimace. Honestly speaking, Coulson wasn’t entirely sure whether he had enough facial muscles left to form a smile; it was now frozen into a hideous, nightmarish grimace that he used to lure the newer agents into a sense of fear that at least was more likely to keep them alive then a gently, gently, softly, softly approach. They lost enough men as it was to ballistic demi-gods, casual rampaging green rage monsters, unknown explosions, laboratory failures, unexplained viral outbreaks and budget cuts. Still, as he turned back towards the large, one-way glass windows that looked down onto the conference table below, Coulson couldn’t help but purse his lips at the nervous, impatient, tense pacing from the Captain-hero of his childhood cards, and the furious typing of the muttering genius.

“Have Stark and Rogers been told yet?”

“No.”

Coulson’s eyesbrows rose. “With all due respect, _sir,_ ” which generally meant ‘You’re an idiot sir, but I can’t say that outright, and here’s why you’re a jackass.’ “Banner has already identified the anomalies. He and Stark are going to find out. Soon.”

“Then let them find out. At least they’ll be doing something useful and quiet.”

“They won’t be quiet when they find out you’ve been hiding this from them, and as a consequence, Spiderman’s…MIA.” Agent Hill, using her SHIELD taught ability to materialise whenever there was a necessary comment to be made, intoned, clipboard in hand.

“You think they’ll be happier with the alternative they already believe?” Coulson shook his head, brushing invisible lint off the sleeve of his black jacket, tugging the cuff into exactly the right position.

“I give them two hours.” Hill murmured, flicking through her clipboard, as Coulson passed her towards the door. Fury scoffed.

“Ten minutes until they’re in my office.”

“Impossible.” Hill was quick to shake her head. “It took our scientists weeks, they’re not Stark, but he’s not a machine.”

“Our scientists didn’t have the head start.”

“Head start of what?” Hill frowned as Coulson paused at the door with a slight, dark little smile.

“God help us.” She shook her head, letting the pages drop back into place against the wooden board. Fury just settled himself into his chair.

“Gods have never been on our side, Hill, best not to put all your faith in them.”

* * *

** AND THE PAST LIES ONLY IN RUIN **

* * *

 

When Peter managed to stretch his cramped limbs out enough to clamber from the truck, dusk had almost vanished into the pale, blue gloom of night.

He’d been given a spare undershirt and jacket found in one of the trucks. It was a little big and smelled of musty crates, but it was better than parading around bare chested, even if the weather was pretty damn nice for a nightmare.

Following into step behind the Captain, he was a little embarrassingly aware of Steve slowing down his pace. But, Cap didn’t exactly seem to mind the casual stroll through the ranks. Small groups were gathered in corners and clearings through the trees, enjoying a smoke or a casual game of cards. It was almost like a scene from a B-list war movie; the murdered voices, the hushed tones, the twilight darkness. It was surreal.

It would’ve been a relaxing evening if he hadn’t had three hundred and two questions, worries, fears and dreads doing the foxtrot round and round in his head.

“Captain…” He finally ventured once they’d made their leisurely way through the main ranks and towards the more secluded groups of freed POWs. “When we get back to camp, what’s gonna happen?”

Steve was silent for a long moment, pausing in his stride to ponder the question. So like Pop…never to rush into something unless it was to save a friend, a comrade…anyone he deemed worthy of saving. Which generally seemed to be anyone but the true enemy.

“Well, that depends on what you tell me, Ben. The commanding officers are going to want to know who you are so you can help. You obviously have some great abilities, abilities which would be so beneficial to the war effort. They’ll want to-.”

“They’ll want to experiment.” Peter’s voice was small. He’d had the fear ever since the bite; nothing could be worse than being strapped to a table and being poked and prodded and scraped to within an inch of his life. It had been bad enough when Bruce, honourary uncle that he was, had taken enough samples of blood, tissue, scans, measurements and reflex prods to fill an entire medical journal. And that was Bruce! With Stark Tech. And a smile! This would be Doctor Eager-Stranger McGee with a rusty hatchet and penicillin. No thank you!

“They’re not going to experiment on you, just-.”

“Just test whether I’m a threat or not through invasive, possible dangerous, and likely not sanitary enough ways. Yep, not experimenting at all.” Peter sighed. He rubbed his nose miserable, mind whirring. He could run. He could try to find some way out of this godforsaken nightmare on his own. But, this was his Pop. Okay, maybe not his Pop, but it was his connection. He’d been thrown into the Second World War, into a HYDRA camp…just as his Pop came to the rescue. That had to mean something, right? That had to mean…he was meant to stay with him. But, this Steve Rogers…this was the Captain America of old. In his element, in his prime in his…really inadequately armoured costume. This wasn’t his adopted father.

“Ben…I’m just like you remember. All that your dad told you, it’s likely to be true. Maybe we’re not cut from exactly the same cloth, but we’re both….enhanced. We’re both soldiers. Before I came on this mission I was just an icon, now I can actually be a solider. They’ll know where I can best help my country, that’s all they’ll want to do for you. To be the best you can be, son.”

Peter scoffed, tugging his arms tightly around his torso, the loose jacket caching a small breeze enough to make his unusually high metabolism shiver slightly. “Cap, hey don’t experiment on you _because_ you’re an icon. A national icon. You are the war effort propaganda, you keep everything…ticking over with films and those weird Expo speech things with loads of half-naked women.” It was oddly comforting to see Steve’s ears blush pink. “Me? I’m the spare. Their guinea pid. Their prized lab rat. The bug under the microscope with the really, really big needle to poke me with!”

“Ben.” A big, warm, and so painfully familiar rom his other casual moments of teenage panic, hand clamped down on his shoulder to stop the break of outwardly splurging words. “Ben, I can help you, but only if you let me.”

“Let you do what, though, Cap! If you turn me in I’m a pincushion. Pincushions have terrible life goals, most of which revolve around not being a pincushion!”

“Richards! Calm down; pull yourself together. Panicking is no going to solve anything. Now…I’m not going to let you become a…a “pincushion” if you help me understand what you’ve been through, who you are. When I said we had your back, I meant it. I-“

But, whatever heartfelt message of comraderie and comfort the good Captain was likely to udder were cut short. At that precise moment, with the soft hum of voices in the distance, and the fading light of twilight turning into the inky blackness of night, Peter’s spider sense of impending doom kicked into wide, unadulterated overdrive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short one for today! Sorry there's a lot of exposition and rambling, and talking. Thanks for all the support, it means the world to me!


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